Forbidden Fruit
by MissAmyR92
Summary: My take on what could have happened after Carla's suicide attempt. Rated T due to sensitive topics involved.


**Forbidden Fruit**

"Carla," he spoke in a whisper, "please don't go." He carefully manoeuvred her limp frame so she was resting against him, as if she were as delicate and fragile as a porcelain doll. With her jet black hair and pale skin, and Peter assuming the 'knight-in-shining-armour' role, the situation resembled a scene from _Snow White._ Carla would've given anything for Peter to be her prince too.

"Carla, sweetheart, please stay with us...please, stay..." Panic and desperation were evident in his trembling voice. Peter held Carla's lifeless body in his arms, willing her to wake up. The thought of losing her for good sent a wave of dread through him and he felt physically sick to the stomach.

Peter was unaware of what was going on around him. All he saw and that mattered to him at that moment was Carla. He didn't notice the paramedics frantically arranging to get her to hospital. He didn't notice his wife stood there in a state of shock, eyes wide and a hand covering her mouth. He didn't even notice that Leanne was so distraught by the touching scene that she left.

Fear was prominent on Peter's distressed face. He couldn't bear to take his eyes away from Carla. He felt like if he broke the virtual contact, she'd slip away. Images of times he'd previously spent with Carla flashed through his mind. He imagined that sarcastic smile she pulled, that dirty giggle she did when she'd had a few, that effortlessly stunning grin she had when she was genuinely happy. Not that Peter could remember the last time he had seen her smile.

He repeatedly checked her pulse, faint though it was, despite the paramedics taking care of matters. Her skin was cold and clammy to the touch. Despite being unconscious, with no make up on and wearing a baggy tracksuit, she was still the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on. Ever so gently, he stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. Her skin was as soft as silk. A bead of sweat had formed on her forehead. It annoyed Peter as it obstructed her otherwise perfect looks. He cautiously wiped it away, smiling a tiny, half-hearted smile at how peaceful Carla looked as she lay in his arms.

Peter was snapped back to reality by the female paramedic placing her hand tentatively on his shoulder. He heard the words 'crucial', 'condition' and 'hospital' but the rest was just a blur of noise, he was unable to take in exactly what was said. Silently, he assisted the paramedics in moving Carla and noted just how small and vulnerable she looked on the stretcher.

"You can come in the ambulance with her if you like, Sir."

Peter was dumbstruck for a moment. His head was yelling at him to go and be with Leanne, his wife, but his heart was screaming at him to stay by Carla's side; she needed him now more than ever.

"I er..." he paused for a moment. "I'll make my own way." The paramedic nodded, helping to move Carla into the ambulance with her colleague.

"She will be all right, won't she?" Peter questioned. She simply smiled in a sympathetic manner, closed the ambulance doors and they drove away, leaving him alone in the dark and the cold with only his muddled thoughts for company.

* * *

Peter stood, staring into the distance in the direction the ambulance had gone, for a good couple of minutes before his brain snapped into gear. He fumbled in his pocket for his mobile phone, deciding that he'd call Leanne to make sure that she was okay seeing as she'd left in such a hurry. He half expected to find a barrage of missed calls waiting for him but the screen was blank. He dialled Leanne's number and waited as it rang. Peter pressed the phone to his ear using his shoulder and rubbed his hands together for warmth. He sighed as his call went to voice-mail. Peter paced up and down a short stretch of path as he called his wife's phone again. This time, it went immediately to her messaging service without ringing. He sighed as he hung up, cursing under his breath.

Noticing that Leanne had taken the car home, and seeing as she wouldn't respond to his calls, he decided to make the twenty-minute-or-so walk to the hospital.

Back at the flat she shared with her husband and his son, Leanne deliberately pressed the 'End Call' key on her mobile, ignoring Peter's calls. After he'd attempted to make contact with her a couple of times she switched the phone off and threw it across the living room with an angry grunt.

Leanne collapsed on to the sofa, rested her head in her hands and sobbed.

* * *

The ambulance carrying Carla's fragile frame sped through the streets of Weatherfield. Carla could just about make out faint voices around her, their faded voices whizzed around her head. She attempted to open her eyes but they were heavy, as if they had ten-tonne weights attached to them. She tried to speak but her mouth refused to move, her tongue rolling lazily around her mouth. Carla felt such extreme tiredness, as if all life had been drained from her. Unable to resist any longer, she succumbed to the sleep her body so desperately craved.

Peter lit cigarette after cigarette as he walked to the hospital. A torrent of agitated thoughts plagued his mind. He was worried sick about Carla. She'd been at her most vulnerable, needed his support more than ever, and he hadn't been able to provide it. Carla had been his confidante many a time. He couldn't count the number of times she'd saved him from falling off of the wagon or looked after him when he had succumbed to the demon that was drink. Peter cast his mind back to the heated argument between a vulnerable Carla and his scorned wife earlier on that day. Leanne had said some terribly nasty things to her, despite it being obvious that Carla was already in a state. Aside from her physical appearance which was unusual for her, you could hear the pain, hurt and fear in her trembling voice as she cried desperate tears. Peter felt a pang of guilt hit him like tonne of bricks. '_I should've stuck up for her. I should've stopped Leanne. I should've gone after her when she left. I could've stopped this.' _

"Shoulda, woulda, flamin' coulda." He muttered under his breath, angrily stamping out a cigarette under his foot.

* * *

Carla's limp frame was wheeled through the busy hospital and eventually shifted onto an awaiting bed. She was drifting in and out of consciousness, her body too weak to even open her eyes. The mental and emotional hurt she was feeling were far more agonising than any physical pain she'd ever experienced. She could hear an army of chaotic voices around her discussing her weak condition in medical jargon. It was like a foreign language to her. To Carla, the muffled voices sounded as if she was underwater – that faraway, echo-like murmur. She certainly felt as if she was drowning. Drowning in a sea of hurt and fear. Her delicate body fell into a period of unconsciousness.

Peter frantically made his way through the busy hospital car park, narrowly avoiding being hit by several moving cars as he went. He uuttered many curses while puffing on his umpteenth cigarette. Reaching the entrance doors, he threw the still-lit cigarette into a nearby puddle. The way it folded over on itself as it fizzled out unsettled him.

He raced through the colourless corridors of Weatherfield General at speed, only pausing for breath to ask members of staff for directions to A&E. He impatiently hit the door buzzer repeatedly until someone answered. He could barely say his name when asked, he was so panicked and breathless. A doctor, who looked more like a lanky school kid playing dress up, he thought, escorted Peter to the waiting room as he explained Carla's condition and that she needed to be properly assessed before he could see her.

"Can't I just sit with her? Please?" A desperate Peter pleaded.

"I'll inform you as soon as Mrs Connor is ready for visitors, sir." The doctor replied simply, leaving Peter alone in the waiting room.

His mind was racing so wildly that he was unable to sit still. He paced up and down the drab-looking room, scanning his eyes over the various information leaflets donning the walls and women's magazines with their unreastically daft stories sat on a table in the corner. His restless hands were itching for another cigarette, smoking was his only method of dealing with stress, but he refused to leave the room until he heard some news about Carla. Pangs of guilt, worry and rage hit him in the stomach like violent punches. Peter blamed himself wholeheartedly for the terrible state his good friend was in. It was blatantly obvious that she was silently crying out for someone to help her and he hadn't realised just how desperate she was. He attempted to place himself in her fragile position, thinking of just how petrified and lonely she must have been. Carla was living alone in the place where she was violently attacked, no doubt drinking herself into oblivion on a daily basis to cope with the pain, and he wasn't there for her like he should have been. He felt like he didn't even deserve to consider himself as her friend. Friends don't abandon each other at such critical times. Peter couldn't help beating himself up over this; it was as if an avalanche of negative feeling had crashed into him. Sitting down, placing his head in his hands, Peter let out of a lone tear.

* * *

A sleepy Carla prised her heavy eyelids open. For a moment she didn't know where she was but the situation soon came flooding back to her and a deep sigh escaped. She attempted to lift her weary head but it refused to move, instead her tired eyes rolled back into her head. Carla groaned as a wave of nausea washed over her and the pain of a hundred hangovers raided her skull. A gentle-sounding nurse came to her bedside, administering painkillers and chattering friendly nonsense to distract her from the discomfort of the needle pricking her skin. Carla found that her mouth was so dry, almost of sandpaper texture, that she was unable to speak. Instead she attempted an appreciative smile, not even bothering to try to open her weary eyes.

"Are you feeling up to visitors?" The nurse asked. Carla forced her sore eyes to open.

"Visitors?" Carla croaked in a small voice, a look of confusion adorning her pale face.

"There's a bloke in the waiting room for you. Mid forties, dark hair, leather jacket?"

"Peter's here?" Now her eyes resembled those of a bewildered rabbit caught in a car's headlights. She hesitated for a moment. "Yeah I'll see him."

The nurse simply smiled and went to collect Peter from the waiting room.

Carla panicked a little. What would Peter think of her, for being so stupid and weak? Why was he even there?


End file.
